


The Adventure of the Disappearing Lady

by StarMaple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 1st person, Blog, Gen, Journal, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaple/pseuds/StarMaple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a Sherlock Secret Santa gift for Whoviandragon. </p><p>John recounts a visit to Arizona with Sherlock where they encounter a woman in white, and two FBI agents who aren't what they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Disappearing Lady

The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

23 April

I hope, readers, that you can forgive me the presence of the small, hopefully unobtrusive ads on my blog. Perhaps I should explain their presence: It’s hard to really describe what Sherlock is like when he’s truly excited about a case— usually inappropriately by the standards of social norms. And it was to one of these manic episodes that I entered the flat last Wednesday, after a long shift at the surgery at which I fill in.

“A nine, John! A legitimate nine!” Sherlock was in the middle of exclaiming as I came in. I raised a curious eyebrow, but planned to save my inquiries until after a fortifying cup of tea. Sherlock, however, had other plans. “Here is your ticket,” he said, thrusting a piece of paper at me. “Our flight departs in three hours, so we’ll have to leave shortly. I’ve packed you a bag with your passport, but you have a few moments if you’d like to check I got all the essentials.” He gestured to the doorway, where indeed, my overnight bag was sitting, packed. I glanced at the paper in my hand. It was a boarding pass to an international flight to—

“I am not going to Arizona!” I exclaimed. “I have work in the morning. And the day after that!”

Sherlock waved me off. “Skip it. This is a nine, John!” he repeated.

“I have to pay the rent! And buy food!” I explained. Sherlock usually forgot such mundane aspects of normal life.

Sherlock had the audacity to roll his eyes at me. “Surely you’d much rather be on a case with me?”

“Well, of course, but…”

“And you still enjoy writing that ridiculous blog?”

My hackles went up a bit at that. If you’re reading this then I hope you don’t think my blog is ridiculous. “I don’t see…”

Sherlock sighed like I was being particularly dense. Perhaps I was. “Monetize your writing, John. You have thousands of readers to your blog, so incorporate ads. Perhaps later you can write to publishers with samples of your writing and the data detailing your followers and receive a modest contract for a collection of short stories based on my cases, but for now, ads should provide you with some spending money.”

So, the ads. It’s an experiment of sorts. Please let me know what you think. If they’re not too offensive, I rather like the idea of making some money with Sherlock’s stories. Especially since so much of his work is volunteer. At any rate, he was convincing enough for me to call in sick to work, and three hours later we were on a plane bound for America.

You might think being trapped in a confined space with Sherlock might be a nightmare (and the return trip still might be, as he’ll have nothing to focus on) but the flight out was pleasant. Sherlock insisted on being flown first class before he’d agree to take the case, nine or not, which was a rare treat for me. He had a stack of research and background information to go through which kept him occupied as I read or napped. The details I gleaned from him were this: A series of young men had disappeared from a stretch of highway in Arizona. A serial killer was likely, but there was no evidence to be had other than a few empty cars. It was as if the men had simply disappeared into thin air. Sherlock thought it a serial killer. A woman had been spotted along the highway— in a long white dress, slightly disheveled, sometimes covered in what looked like blood— by passers by and Sherlock supposed the serial killer was playing on a local ghost story in order to commit her or his (if he was slight enough and wore a wig) crimes. However, by the end of the flight, though he claimed to have “three or four” very good ideas, I was pretty sure he was as stumped as I was as to how the murders had occurred.

At long last, we landed in Arizona, a place entirely unlike Britain. Sherlock’s services and flight had been paid for by the relatively well-to-do family of one of the victims. Fortunately, the officer on the case, Detective Belmont, was something of a fan and was extremely helpful and forthcoming with the evidence, as thin as it was. We sorted through the police files, we interviewed victim’s families, we went to the crime scene. After a day and a half, though, (and Sherlock will be extremely put out that I am writing this) we were still no closer to a solution, although Sherlock had deduced that every single one of the men involved had been cheating on his girlfriend, or in one case, boyfriend, at the time. One more tally for the ghost story then, which only served to further frustrate Sherlock more. He does say that once you’ve ruled out the possible, whatever’s left, no matter how improbable, must be true, but I’m pretty sure he draws the line— or at least drew the line— at ghosts.

But that is when the ‘FBI Agents’ arrived on the case. They swept in as if they owned the place, but Sherlock had their number immediately. (Although I would like the credit for noting that Agents ‘Page’ and ‘Plant’ were obvious pseudonyms.) Brothers with no fixed address, a hard life with early trauma, raised without a mother, skilled thieves and con men, a history of credit card scams, an odd attachment to the old Chevy they drove, Sherlock saw it all in a flash, but seemed to be intrigued and so didn’t let on to law enforcement that they weren’t who they claimed to be.

I worried they might be attempting to defraud the victims, but Sherlock assured me they weren’t interested in money and insisted that we follow them. I think he found them unusual, and slightly more clever and interesting than average. Perhaps it was just a distraction from his inability to solve the case. They spent the day doing much as we had done— research, interviews, a trip to the local library— but in the evening, they headed to the graveyard.

We observed from a distance, but I had to do something when they pulled out a shovel and started digging. I didn’t know what grave desecration had to do with a couple of con-artists pretending to solve a missing persons case, but that was really beyond the pale. Despite Sherlock’s protests I marched out to stop them.

I can’t really describe what happened next. The mysterious con artists seemed surprised and then one of them, the really tall bloke, shouted out a warning. I spun, and there she was, that woman in the white dress! She rushed me, face twisted with rage, and I reached for where my gun would have been had I wanted to deal with the hassle of bringing it to America. However, it wouldn’t have done much good, as the closer she got, the more transparent she looked. She was solid enough to knock me down, but it felt like force, rather than a woman pushing me.

A gunshot went off, and I snapped my head up in time to see the woman just dissipate. Not into a fine red mist, but rather like smoke being blown away. I scrambled to my feet in time to notice two things: One, Sherlock, who had been rushing my way to help, stood stock still, gaping in a way I’d never seen before. Smoke could almost be seen trailing out his ears his mind seemed so overwhelmed. Two, the men at the grave seemed to redouble their pace, yelling at each other to hurry. They dug deeper, broke through whatever remained of the coffin, doused it in petrol and table salt and lit it aflame. A scream brought my attention to the woman again, reconstituted and coming for the fake agents, only to be going up in flames as if they’d set her on fire before disappearing again with a sense of finality.

It was then, readers, that I went to talk to the two men, who were indeed brothers. I’ll not print their names here, as they operate with a certain amount of necessary anonymity. Suffice it to say, they are Hunters, who don’t hunt game but rather ghosts, demons, and monsters… which apparently all exist! (Handy tip: Ghosts are driven away by salt— thus the rocksalt shells in the shotgun which drove away the ghost— and salting and burning a grave will permanently banish a spirit.)

Sherlock, for his part, seemed torn between narrowing his eyes in disbelief at them both, as if looking for the trick, and being overjoyed at a new and untapped field of science to experiment in. At the moment, as we sit in our hotel room waiting for our flight home, he’s testing vials of my blood, looking for traces of the hallucinogen we must have been on, and also undeleting his knowledge of Latin so he can translate some ancient texts on exorcisms.

The four of us— Sherlock, the brothers, and I— worked out a story for the officials. The men were certainly dead— Sherlock ‘deduced’ an old lover who’d come back for revenge on all three of them—A unlikely coincidence, but more believable than a ghost—and unleashed one of the many ways he knows to make a body entirely disappear to explain the lack of corpses.

Sherlock thought it only proper to refuse his fees, causing me to fret quite a bit about where the money would come from, but it turns out that not only does Sherlock have something of a trust fund, you, my readers, are far more valuable to me than I previously thought! The brothers offered to help us commit credit card fraud, but by the time we were ready to part ways, my ad revenue was much higher than expected. Not enough to completely quit my doctoring yet, but enough to make my lifestyle of running around with Sherlock much more feasible. I do enjoy writing about our adventures, so it would be nice if I could make a living doing it.

Sherlock seems to think I can, and he is always right.

Except, apparently, when it comes to the supernatural.


End file.
